


Blood like Nectar

by violetflower



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Ambiguous Age, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood, Explicit Language, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Violence, ambiguous time period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetflower/pseuds/violetflower
Summary: Pennywise inexplicably saves a high school aged female reader from an assault at the hands of Henry Bowers' gang. This is the story of how she (you) establishes a dysfunctional, angst-filled relationship with the monstrous clown entity who so graciously protected her.If the potentially underage element (reader is portrayed as 15 or 16 years old) bothers you, feel free to imagine an older reader.





	Blood like Nectar

Content warning for attempted sexual assault.

 

_Flowers fall to their naked knees_  
_Here I come now, here I come_  
_I hear you been out there looking for something to love_  
_The dark force that shifts at the edge of the tree_

 

You like to spend time to yourself. It’s not that you don’t have plenty of friends. In fact, you even suppose that you’re moderately popular among the various fixtures in the hallways of Derry High School. Every now and again, however, the noise of it all—friends, petty drama, schoolwork, the general “Derry-ness” of everything—gets to you. The Barrens have always been the perfect place to escape to. It’s out of the way and overgrown, a natural hiding spot. That’s how you view it at least. Younger kids mostly avoided the place. The rumor that it is haunted seems to be inborn knowledge in Derry; nobody really discusses this and yet the fact of it is almost hereditarily understood. Especially in light of the recent string of disappearances that started up a few months back, even the older kids, your peers, who take pride in scoffing at Derry’s various mythologies, have also abandoned the Barrens as the hangout spot it had become, designated for smoking pot and drinking cheap beer if somebody’s older sibling had so graciously “come through”. Although the Barrens had long been considered an erroneous moniker for such a lush area, it seems pretty apt now. It’s forgotten. No, it’s forsaken. This is more than fine with you. The quieter the better. 

And It’s quiet you’re seeking that day in late September when you make your way down to the Barrens directly after final period, dodging a few invitations to hang out (i.e. get high and waste away indoors) with your tried-and-true, “Sorry, I’m actually really busy today”. You do feel rather _under_ -dosed for Derry where everyone seems to be under the influence of something or other, but today you’re content to walk alongside the brambles and shallow streams of the Barrens mindlessly humming and daydreaming. It’s your favorite way to spend an afternoon. As you stroll along you imagine the vague, shapeless future that lies down the road after graduation. The thought that you will be able to escape this shithole of a town in a few more years in enough to keep you going when things seem particularly pointless or bleak, but it’s almost as if Derry itself fogs your mind and prevents you from really, _actually_ picturing leaving it. You stop to rip up some wildflowers growing by the water without even thinking and immediately feel a pang of guilt. _God, they’re just plants_ you think, chiding yourself for your childishness; this quality has always been one of your biggest insecurities. It makes you feel too weak, too soft.

When you get tired of walking you sit down on a crumbling cement ledge (the Barrens is scattered with such furnishings) and fish a beaten-up, school-issued copy of the 'The Homeric Hymns' from your backpack. You actually really enjoy most of your assigned readings, as nerdy as that sounds. Reading calms you, kindly steals away your mind, in a way no drug ever could. You guess you're an escapist in every sense. 

You’ve been immersed in your book for about an hour when you hear rustling in the vegetation that surrounds you. Your heart flutters slightly and you lower your book. You can’t help but to think about the missing children, the possible serial killer(s) at large in Derry. Even those dumb stories about ghosts and cryptids flicker through your thoughts. 

But before your imagination can run too wild, four older boys emerge from the tree line. You recognize Henry Bowers immediately. He’s a senior at your school, notorious for being held back repeatedly. You also know he likes to terrorize children half his age if not younger. Scumbag you think. Behind him you see Patrick Hockstetter, Reginald Huggins, and one other kid whose name you think is Victor something. The infamous Bowers gang. They’re smoking and bantering about a topic that apparently requires the use of several f- slurs. 

The group stops and stares when they see you there. They look dumbfounded to have come across someone else in the Barrens. 

“Hi.” You say. They’re pieces of shit but you figure it’s too awkward to not at least acknowledge them, and although you’re mildly annoyed at the intrusion you don’t yet sense any reason to be afraid. 

Hockstetter, Huggins, and Victor ( _Is it Criss?_ ) smirk from behind Henry who happens to be the closest to you. 

“L/N, right?” Henry asks. 

It’s a small town and an even smaller school, but you’re actually a little bit surprised that he knows who you are. Sure, everybody knows Henry Bowers, but why would _you_ be on _his_ radar? You’ve never interacted with him and you run in such vastly different circles.

“Yeah.” You respond.

Henry glances around furtively as if checking for something and then flicks away his cigarette butt. 

“Who’re you down here with?” He asks

The question immediately unnerves you. Some sudden, piercing instinct whispers to you not to admit that you’re by yourself.

“I was just leaving, actually.”

You shove your book back into your rucksack and stand up to go. However, as you make to walk past them, Henry and Patrick block your way.

“Excuse me..” you say (instead of _Uh, what the fuck?_ which is your first thought)

Henry looks you up and down and smiles. Its not a good look on him. In fact, it makes your skin crawl.

“Why don’t you stick around for awhile.” He says. It’s more of a statement than a question, a demand rather than an invitation. 

He rests a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve seen you around, y’know.” 

Henry’s goons begin to laugh. You aren’t exactly sure what this is supposed to mean but Alarm bells are blaring now. You start to realize the danger you are in. All of the reasons that you appreciate the Barrens—the fact that it’s secluded, dense, and far from town—suddenly horrify you. You need to get out of here. 

“I have a boyfriend” you lie. “He knows I’m here. He’s on his way to meet me right now.”

Henry seems to consider this for a moment. 

“Four ‘gainst one. We could take him.” He nods toward his posse. 

Then, without warning, he reaches out to grope at your chest. The gesture is so casual you can’t help but to marvel at his insane sense of entitlement, he seems to have no problem treating people who are weaker than him like objects for his own amusement. You huff indignantly and nudge him in the side.

“Fuck off, Bowers.” You feign confidence but inside you are almost dizzy with panic. 

A chorus of sarcastic, taunting “ _Oooh_ ”-s erupt from the other boys. You glare at them. 

“I’m serious. Get away from me.” You say, now trying to forcibly push past them.

Henry grabs hold of your arm and yanks you back to him. You feel tears spring to your eyes. 

“Or what? _Or what?_ ” He poses the question with a tone of such genuine curiosity that you are somewhat taken aback. It’s as if he simply cannot fathom a world in which he does not get his way. 

You don’t respond.

Henry then shoves you into Victor who roughly folds both of your arms behind you and presses your back flat against his chest, forcing you to face Henry. You feel the older boy’s breath on the nape of your neck and shudder violently. 

You watch as Henry removes something from his pocket. 

There’s a silver glint as he unfolds a switchblade. He doesn’t exactly threaten you with it, just swings it casually and passes the knife from hand to hand. It’s enough to make your stomach drop. 

“Just show us your tits and then you can leave.” Bowers proposes as if he’s giving you a very reasonable and benevolent option. 

You redden and hate the tears that now begin to leak down your cheeks. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh, damn, I guess she wants to get right to it then. Knew she looked like a slut.” Henry laughs. 

His friends laugh too.

Henry leans forward and hooks a finger under the collar of your T-shirt. _How did everything escalate so quickly?_ You wonder. Not ten minutes ago you were reading your book in peace.

“Please, stop. Please.” You ask tearfully. If being assertive doesn’t work, you will gladly beg him. You just want this to end.

He then positions the switchblade on the fabric of your collar and begins to cut downward in a sawing motion. 

You immediately realize his intent. Before he can slit open your shirt more than a few inches, something snaps inside of you and you scream for help as loudly as you possibly can. It's a sound you didn’t even know you could produce and hearing it truly frightens you. Something else hears it too, but you have no inkling of that yet. 

Screaming is the wrong choice.

Instantly a sweaty, meaty hand smashes over your mouth painfully jabbing your teeth into your lip. Henry moves his blade to your throat. “Stupid bitch.” He swears. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

When he is content that you won’t scream again he shoves you from Victor’s hold and onto the ground.

You’re on your knees crying hysterically, choking out apologies when one of the boys kicks you square in the back and you fall forward onto your stomach. 

The second you try to push yourself back up, a hand curls around the back of your neck and slams your face down again this time your cheek is pressed, mashed rather, into the cool soil beneath you. You’re sputtering, heaving wildly.

 

You hear Henry’s voice right in your ear.

“Stop crying. My pa says this is what bitches were put on the planet for.” There’s so much anger in his voice. “Why would you come down here alone if you weren't looking for this?” Henry asks and you hear the smugness in his question, like he’s just said something devastatingly clever which fully places the blame of his cruelty on you.

“N-no” you protest shakily. “ I wasn’t. I’ve..I’ve never even been with anyone before.” It comes out as a choked whisper but you hope that maybe, _maybe_ , you can appeal to some shred of empathy left in at least one of your assailants. 

But Instead, the assholes bust out in another round of laughter like a pack of unhinged hyenas. 

You feel hot, calloused fingers force their way under the waist of your jeans just above your ass. 

“You gonna give us a turn on her, Henry?” you hear Huggins ask. The question makes you feel nauseous with fear.

You then feel your jeans being peeled off of your body and you’re certain that you have never been more terrified in you entire life. It’s an emotion so blinding in its urgency and helplessness that it feels as if you might actually die. _Might actually want to die._

This terror, of course, is what beckons Pennywise to you on that day. The strange spice of your extraordinary fear is irresistible to him. He arrives on the scene almost inevitably, like a shark drawn to chummed waters, led by pure instinct to the intoxicating scent of blooming, delectable carnage.

It is only when you sense a tugging at your underwear and your mind beginning to dissociate, beginning to float away, that you notice him. 

Only a few yards away crouching in the reeds, mostly obscured but still visible to you is…a clown. And he’s smiling at you. Smiling with relish and curiosity like you aren’t about to be brutalized in front of him. 

You see him even though your vision is blurred with tears and the side of your face is still being crushed into the ground. _How can it be that none of the Bowers gang seem to detect him?_

_I’m hallucinating_ you think, your head swimming and ears ringing oddly. _When they slammed me down it must have given me some sort of concussion_.

The clown looks so unreal, so impossible, with his garish makeup and bizarre, antiquated costume. 

But then you realize, as creepy as he is, if he _is_ real he looks like an adult and an adult, clown or not, might be able to scare away Henry and his crew— Henry and his crew who are actively unzipping their pants, a sound that slices through you like a knife. Your cheeks burn with the shame and discomfort of being fully exposed from the waist down. But you need to push aside this humiliation. You need to try something, anything.

“Help me.” you say weakly with eyes fixed on the strange, hidden bystander.

Your throat is so raw from screaming that you’re almost certain your plea is inaudible. You mouth the words again, that being all you can manage this time. “ _Please, help me._ ” The clown is motionless but his smile is fading, his eyes seeming to change color or are you just imagining it?

You feel rough fingers on your buttocks, probing your flesh, viciously trying to gain access to the most intimate parts of you. Another set of hands yanks your head up by the hair, laughing wickedly to see you yelp in pain. The world is spinning violently and you lose sight of the clown. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Just as one of the boys makes to position himself behind you, you hear a shriek.

then  
A child-like giggle that chills your blood  
then  
“What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK!”  
then  
the sounds of frantic running, snapping branches, and discordant yelling 

Your hair is released and your head crashes down against the hard earth. Despite the immense pain your eyelids flutter open, desperate to glean some information and figure out what’s going on.

Everyone is gone. You see nothing but a light splattering of dark liquid seeping into the grass and dirt.

_…Blood? Whose blood?_

Your vision begins to tunnel as you hear the light popping of twigs and crunch of dried leafs. Something is approaching you. Someone is coming back for you.

The last thing you see before briefly losing consciousness is a pair of startlingly flamboyant boots a few feet from your face. They’re dirty white with a sharp, dark wine-colored design, laced in black and tapering to a bright red poof ball on each toe. Clown shoes. Surprisingly elegant ones. You smell burnt popcorn mingled with the cloying scent of cotton candy, and somewhere beneath these something dark and putrid. Memories of late summer fairgrounds wash over you as you pass out.

The next thing you remember is a series of images like fragments seen through a hazy kaleidoscope as you slip in and out of lucidity. _Stained silvery silk, blinding blue sky, preternaturally white skin, flash of animalistic teeth, red, red, red, black._

Very slowly you realize you’re being carried. You sense one arm hooked under your legs and another supporting your back. Someone is carrying you bridal style. Maybe you should be alarmed, but you are too burned out from your earlier struggle to muster the strength to really care at all. Drowsily you crack open your eyelids to at least see who has you so entirely captured in this most vulnerable state. Black spots dance across your vision as you strain to focus. When you do, you know instantly. The cracking white makeup, the tufts of fiery hair, the protruding lips expanding into a dramatically overdrawn greasepaint smile—you are seeing up close the same clown from earlier. You’re in his arms looking upward. From what you can tell he isn’t looking at you though. He’s seemingly focused on moving through the dense vegetation, something he does skillfully, gracefully even. So you’re still down in the Barrens then. Where is he taking me? You open your mouth to ask when the woozy sensation returns and see your view of the clown shrink to a tiny white pinprick. You’re out again before you can manage a word.

~~~

Hours later, your eyes fly open and you sit bolt upright. Now you are fully conscious, even hyper aware. Your minds’ recognition of what occurred earlier puts your body into an intuitive fight or flight mode. But this soon melts to confusion. There’s no immediate danger as far as you can tell but you’ve woken up outside, presumably still somewhere in the Barrens, alone in a small clearing you’ve never seen before. The grass beneath you is soft and you can hear the hum of insects and chirping of birds—indifferent witnesses to your predicament. 

The reality of the attack strikes you like a hot iron. Your hands fly to your lower body, muscles remembering how your jeans and underwear were so crudely peeled from your hips. But everything’s perfectly intact now. You marvel. Certainly, you were too debilitated to have done that yourself. Someone redressed you, salvaged your modestly in your most powerless moment. You are as embarrassed as you are grateful. That’s when you remember the stranger. _The clown._

 _Who was that? Why was he dressed that way? Where did he go?_

But these thoughts soon dissipate once you notice how much the lighting has changed since you came down after school. The soft yellow of 3pm has turned to the rich amber of impending dusk. You realize that hours have elapsed. 

_The 7pm curfew. Shit!_

As you get up to find your way out of the Barrens and run home you notice a single red balloon tied to a clump of weeds and thistles at the edge of the clearing. It does not sway in the breeze as one would expect, but remains eerily straight and still. You smile faintly even as you tremble inexplicably.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> ‘Proserpina’ is the Roman name for Persephone
> 
> Song lyrics at the beginning are from Nick Cave’s 'Anthrocene'
> 
> I would be delighted to hear any criticism, suggestions, or general thoughts on chapter one.


End file.
